of his hits plays on country radio every hour of the day. His three-month concert tour is completely sold out, and there’s a whole new group of people clamoring to get a piece of him.
But he’s taking it all in stride as long as I’m by his side. That’s what’s important to us both.
He strums the strings of Betty, looking thoughtful. “For a long time, I fought doing this. I would play in the fields, and Brutal was the only one subjected to my shitty songs.”
The audience laughs, and Bobby smirks, holding them in the palm of his hand even as Brutal shouts from the reserved family table, “Off-key every time until I taught him how to carry a tune in a bucket.”
Ignoring the dig, Bobby continues. “Eventually, I found my balls, and Hank over there gave me a chance.”
“Cocky shithead wouldn’t take no for an answer,” Unc yells over the din, keeping Bobby grounded and not letting his head get too big.
“Not like you paid me for those first gigs, anyway,” Bobby retorts.
The crowd looks behind them, waiting for Unc’s comeback, but he throws a dismissive hand in the air, giving Bobby the win.
“So I started singing up here,” Bobby continues, “and it healed something broken in me. You helped me do that.” It’s a heavy confession, meaningfully exposing Bobby’s soft underbelly, something he rarely does, even to me. “Now they want me to go around and sing for more folks. And I’m excited to do it, ain’t gonna lie about that. But it won’t ever be the same as singing right here at home. So, thank you . . . for listening, for singing with me, for making me well enough to do this for my family.” He throws a meaningful look to the Tannens and Bennetts in the corner. “For myself.”
Unexpected silence settles over the crowd, and then applause bursts out.
“Give ’em hell, Bobby!”
“Sing your heart out!”
“Bobby! Bobby! Bobby!”
That one turns into a chant, booted feet stomping to the beat. I think Bobby is getting his first real taste of what this concert tour might be like because his dark eyes go wide in surprise, and under the bright light, I can see a blush to his cheeks.
“Thank you.” One last sincere phrase, and then he shakes his head, back to his gruff attitude. “Let’s sing some shit.”
And he does. He sings all his number-one songs, does a few favorite covers, and then sings a few songs off his just-released album. It’s the first time he’s played some of these in public, but the crowd sings along as though they’ve heard them dozens of times before.
I think Bobby’s surprised at that, though he shouldn’t be. He wrote them on a trip to Nashville in January, and they haven’t even hit radio play yet. Miller had been happy to work with Bobby again, regardless of what record company he was signed with, and they’d made some beautiful music together.
The crowd sings along, swaying and holding their hands in the air, completely under Bobby’s spell. I can understand that. I still pour Olivia’s drinks and wait on the customers around the bar, but I’m slower than Shay’s peach molasses because my attention is continually drawn to the stage. To Bobby. To my man.
I hum along too, mouthing the words that hit my heart sharply. Knowing they came from his mind, his heart, his soul, and how hard he has to work to get them just right makes each phrase and chord that much more poignant.
I pull my phone out, taking a few shots of him onstage. This last moment before things change, before he belongs to the world and not only Great Falls and me. Click.
My eyes are drawn to the screen, and I touch Bobby’s face there, ready to get out of here so that it’s the two of us. I need it to be just us one last time, his body pressed to mine, pinning us together as he fills me, making us one.
The music changes into a chord progression I haven’t heard, and a throat clears heavily. I look up to find Bobby plucking at the strings. His jaw is tight, his shoulders broad, tension woven through his entire body.
What’s wrong?
I scan the front row, looking for someone out of line, but I see nothing amiss. Next, I look along the bar, knowing that if he saw a tourist doing something inappropriate too close to me, he’d go into protective mode.